


The Gearloose Dilemma

by ant5b



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Character(s) of Color, Disabled Character of Color, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:31:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ant5b/pseuds/ant5b
Summary: Fenton struggles with what to do about his inconvenient crush on one Gyro Gearloose.





	The Gearloose Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties with Fenton's Mamá, since we have no idea what her character will be like :D
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and just know that comments give me the energy to write more ridiculous Ducktales fanfiction.

Fenton couldn’t go on like this. 

He could hardly speak right, numbers and words and calculations that were clear in his mind would leave his beak muddled and flat. He always felt too hot and his tie too tight. He was dropping  _ everything _ : pens, notebooks, glassware, unstable neutron cores, his natural clumsiness reaching new heights. Fenton was sure Little Helper despised him more than ever now, since it was the little robot’s job to sweep up after them, and he’d broken three Erlenmeyer flasks just this past week. 

He wondered if it were possible to die from embarrassment, and if not, he would probably be the first to do so. He felt stuck, trapped by his sweaty palms and the manic, exhausted edge to Gyro’s smile when their experiment came to fruition after a 36 hour workday. 

Falling in love with your coworker and lab partner -- Fenton didn't recommend it. 

And forget recommending it, Fenton didn’t know what to  _ do _ about it. 

His mother on the other hand...

“ _ Madre de Dios,  _ Fenton, just tell him how you feel! That is if he doesn’t already  _ know _ , you’re awful at hiding things.”

The soldering iron jerked in Fenton’s hands as he cried out in affront. “Mamá!”

A pair of work gloves slapped him in the face in response, and as they fell into his lap he was able to see his mother looking on in unimpressed displeasure from the other side of the room. 

“Do you  _ want _ to burn yourself? Honestly, it’s like you never heard of practical lab safety.”

Fenton had managed to wrangle one glove on, while still holding onto the soldering iron, and he spread his arms wide in disbelief. 

“You’re the one with a  _ workshop _ in her living room!”

His mother glanced briefly around the room as she made her way over to him. It was like a normal living room in that the walls were a soft, airy peach color and there was a comfortable couch, coffee table, and television, but the similarities stopped there. There were piles of scrap metal and busted electronics covering almost every available surface in a complicated hodgepodge that only Fenton’s mother understood, and a long table against the far wall with all sorts of tools. The furniture and piles had to be evenly spaced as well to allow her passage in her wheelchair, an impressive device of her own design. 

Mrs. Crackshell-Cabrera shrugged. “Well I wasn’t going to move the TV, now was I?”

Fenton sighed as his mother stopped beside him at the worktable. 

“You know,  _ Mamá _ ,” he hedged. “You could go back to work if you wanted to. You’d have state of the art equipment to work with, and not have to rely on scraps from the junkyard.”

“I like working with scraps,” his mother responded, retrieving another pair of work gloves from the side pouch of her wheelchair. “I get them from Carter for free, and in exchange I fix his ridiculous sports car whenever he gets it in his head to go joyriding.”

“But,  _ Mamá _ , you could be doing so much more --”

She cut him off. “So what are you working on here?”

Fenton bit back the rest of his supplication and turned the device, like a metal beach ball in appearance, toward his mother with a small smile. “Security drone. Gyro and I thought it was flying a little funny.”

His mother took the drone, glanced over it momentarily, and smirked. “You and Gyro, huh?”

Fenton flushed beneath his feathers, fiddling with the soldering iron until his mother snatched it from his hands. 

“I swear, it’s like you  _ want _ second degree burns,” she muttered, turning the soldering iron on the drone. 

For many moments things were quiet, the comfortable silence only punctuated by the low murmur of his mother’s  _ novelas _ playing on the television. But in Fenton’s mind churned a cacophony, his thoughts circuitous as he considered his options on what to do about his troubling crush on Gyro. 

Option one: do nothing. Don't say anything to Gyro and inadvertently tank their friendship. Live the rest of his life madly in love with his coworker and eventually die alone. So, option one, not ideal. 

Option two: move away. Drastic, and with instant complications. He’d never lived anywhere other than Duckburg, all of his  _ friends _ lived here, who would water his mother’s begonias and remind her to leave her workshop/living room and reenter society? What if  _ Gyro _ missed him? 

Option three: Fenton’s least favorite - tell Gyro how he felt. This could go any number of ways, from extremely well to extremely  _ not well _ . There was the chance that Gyro might reciprocate his feelings, in which case, great! They’d be able to hold hands and kiss while experiments were running  and go to the drive-in on dates, just like Fenton had always dreamed of doing. 

_ Or _ , Gyro might not feel the same way at all. Might in fact resent Fenton for admitting his feelings and ruining their friendship. Gyro might demand that Fenton be transferred to another lab, so that he’d not only lose Gyro’s easy companionship but earn his animosity instead. 

Fenton didn’t know what he would do if he chose Option Three and it went sour. The dread that the mere thought of its possibility filled him with was beyond description, and at the same time he cursed himself for his cowardliness the rest of him breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t be able to bring himself to carry out Option Three.

His mother interrupted his litany with a precise elbow to his ribs. 

“Stop thinking so much,” she ordered. 

Fenton winced, rubbing his side. “I can’t help it,  _ Mamá _ . I just-I don’t know what to do.”

“Stop thinking,” his mother insisted, not looking up from the panel she was soldering closed on the drone. “You don’t need to  _ know  _ everything. Take a chance.”

“ _ Take a chance _ ?” Fenton repeated shrilly. “But,  _ Mamá,  _ there’s so much that could go wrong-!”

“I gave you my advice, take it or leave it,” she retorted shortly. Mrs. Crackshell-Cabrera put the soldering iron down and leaned back, depressing one of the buttons on the side of the drone. It activated with a cheerful whirr and rose out of her hands, floating above their heads and puttering around the living room ceiling in concentric circles. 

Fenton smiled at the sight. “Nice work,  _ Mamá. _ ”

His mother nodded once, her smile brief but genuine. “I know. Now, take all of this junk to your room, I’ve got the girls from the auto shop coming over.”

Fenton chuckled, moving over to the couch in an attempt to catch the drone. “I don’t live here anymore remember?”

His mother rolled her eyes as he proceeded to jump on the couch, trying and failing to reach the drone that slipped past his outstretched arms with little effort. 

“You’re over here so often I’d forgotten,” she said, plucking the drone’s remote control from Fenton’s pile of miscellania. She pushed the button to deactivate it, and the drone immediately returned to her and powered down on the worktable. 

Fenton smiled as he climbed off the couch, “Thanks. I’ll clean this up right away.”

“Good. I can’t promise that anything you leave won’t be put in the betting pool.”

“Is it poker night?” Fenton asked as he packed his equipment into his duffel bag. 

“We’re playing blackjack,” Mrs. Crackshell-Cabrera confirmed with an anticipatory gleam in her eyes. “I’m gonna take Maribel for everything she’s got.”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it!” Fenton said cheerfully, slinging his duffel bag over one shoulder and giving his mother a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow,  _ Mamá!” _

“Fenton,” his mother said seriously. When he turned back her expression was very briefly clouded with concern before becoming apathetic once more. “Throw out those busted cylinder heads I’ve got by the door on your way out, would you?”

“Sure thing!” Fenton replied, his smile overly wide and tight at the edges. 

The moment he left the living room, Mrs. Crackshell-Cabrera shook her head in exasperation.  _ “Tonto.  _ Never could hide a thing.” 

She could only hope that Gyro would sort him out.

 

$$$$$$$$$

 

The elevator doors opened to Fenton with a hiss, revealing a quiet, darkened laboratory. Illuminated only by the the light outside the massive porthole looking into the depths of Duckburg Bay, it cast haunting shadows across familiar surfaces. 

Fenton trudged in, lugging his duffel bag that had only seemed to become progressively heavier the longer he carried it. It was a bit of a struggle to find his worktable, but since Scrooge enforced a strict lights-out policy with the exception of the most crucial projects, Fenton would just have to muddle in the dark.

He eventually found his station when he counted nine instead of ten of his diecast James Pond car figurines, the last in the set hidden beneath a pile of old files. He retrieved the drone from his duffel bag and set it on the table, attempting not to disrupt the precarious piles of papers and blueprints and...a half eaten grilled cheese?  

Grimacing, Fenton picked up the plate by the very edges and walked it over to the incinerator. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d  _ eaten  _ a grilled cheese. 

After incinerating the sandwich, plate and all, Fenton cast on more look around the lab before he headed home to his small apartment so he could stew over his dilemma for a couple more hours before bed. All was quiet, the lab’s azure pall that never failed to unnerve Fenton making shadows deep and dark. He made to head for the elevators when he noticed a sliver of brightness from under the door to the storage room. 

Warily, with the fear he would find Beagle Boys or spies at the forefront of his mind, Fenton headed to the other side of the room, stopping briefly at the table bearing their pieces of scrap metal and retrieved a long pipe from the jumble. On silent feet he crept closer and closer to the door, the pipe gripped tightly in his hands. Carefully he reached forward with one hand and slowly opened the door, craning his head around to look through the opening. 

Inside he recognized Gyro’s tall, thin frame, his back to the door as he leaned over something on a worktable that Fenton couldn’t see. The source of the light was not only Little Helper but a lamp powered by a small generator, something clearly of Gyro’s invention and thus cleverly exempt from Scrooge’s light’s-out policy. 

Fenton opened the door all the way, metal pipe dangling loosely from one hand as he incredulously demanded, “ _ Gyro _ ? What the heck are you doing here?”

Gyro yelped, knocking over the small stacks of tin and copper sheets that Little Helper had been meticulously stacking beside him. The little bot turned to Fenton and was somehow able to convey resentment without a face.

Gyro knelt to pick up the metal sheets, and Fenton crouched beside him to help. 

“Oh, I— _ sorry _ , I didn’t know anyone was here still here!” Gyro said, his voice trembling nervously as he collected the copper and tin sheets as quickly as possible. 

“I came to drop off the security drone,” Fenton responded slowly. He stopped Gyro’s frantic movements with a hand on his wrist. “Are you okay?” 

Gyro jerked away, rising to his full height with a strained chuckle. “I’m fine! Peachykeen, A-okay, and other synonyms.” He moved to stand in front of his work table, blocking whatever was on it from view. “I’m just working on a...a personal project.”

“Okay,” Fenton replied uncertainly, slowly standing back up. “Do you need any help, or—”

“Nope!” Gyro said quickly, turning his back on Fenton. “I’ve got all the  _ help _ I need right here, don’t I?” It was an old joke, but still he held out his hand for a high five from Little Helper, which the bot simply batted away. 

“Well, if you’re sure,” Fenton said, tamping down the disappointment that arose in his chest. He made to leave, realizing last minute that he was still holding onto a handful of copper and tin sheets. 

He walked back over to Gyro saying, “Oh, I almost walked out with these,” and made to put them back onto the countertop, which gave him an uninterrupted view of what exactly Gyro was working on. 

“ _ No—!” _

Fenton barely heard Gyro’s startled cry, so befuddled was he by his lab partner’s personal project. On the worktable were scattered pliers, various mangled copper and tin sheets, and a cluster of expertly made metal flowers no bigger than Fenton’s palm. 

“Gyro, these are beautiful!” Fenton praised, despite his lingering confusion. “Why did you make such a big deal of hiding them?”

As soon as the words left his beak, Fenton was flooded with realization. Gyro was blushing furiously, looking anywhere but at him, and Fenton felt hollow. 

“Oh, they’re...can I ask who they’re for?” He asked with false cheer so cloying he could feel the cavities forming in his teeth. 

Gyro finally turned to look at him, his eyes wide behind his glasses. 

“They’re very well made, but I’m not surprised, you’ve always been so good with little details like that.” Fenton was rambling now, but he had lost all control of his beak and he was feeling more than a little lightheaded. “But why aren’t you working on them at home instead of the lab after lights-out?”

“The sheets were sent here. The post office refuses to deliver anything other than letters after that shrink ray I ordered went off in the mail truck five months ago,” Gyro responded a little incredulously. “Fenton—”

“I’ve always admired the origami you leave around the lab, it makes sense you were able to—”

“ _ Fenton _ ,” Gyro said more insistently. He moved forward and gripped Fenton’s hand, the duck freezing in place instantly. Gyro was still red in the face, but he smiled as he held Fenton’s wide-eyed gaze. “The flowers. They’re for  _ you _ .”

Fenton didn’t blink. “They’re—what? For me?” 

Gyro shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck with a self deprecating laugh. “I couldn't think of how to tell you. There wasn’t anything I could invent that you couldn’t easily think of yourself, and I thought the flowers would be something different, but I just haven’t been able to get them  _ right— _ ”

“For  _ me _ ?” Fenton said again, but his voice had been reduced to a quiet croak, and his eyes were glassy. 

Gyro’s eyes widened in panic, and he made an aborted movement to clasp Fenton’s arm. “Oh-oh, geez, Fenton, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fenton nodded frantically, rubbing furiously at one eye with the heel of his palm. “I just…” he looked down at their joined hands, smiling tentatively. “I just didn’t think…” 

He looked up at Gyro imploringly, a frisson of fear lancing through his voice. “So…you-you  _ like _ me, right? That’s what’s happening here?”

Gyro blinked, before his face broke into a wide, disbelieving smile. “Fenton, of  _ course _ I like you.”

“Oh,” Fenton said quietly, slowly sitting down on the ground. “Oh good.”

With their hands still entwined, Gyro had no choice but to follow him to the floor. 

“Fenton,” Gyro began, “did you not  _ know _ ?”

The duck’s burst of laughter startled Gyro, though he looked on in concern as it quickly trailed off with no little amount of hysteria. 

“Of course not! I thought I was being so  _ obvious _ —wait, did  _ you _ know?”

Gyro chuckled nervously, looking askance. “Your mom  _ might _ have come down to the lab one day after you’d left. And she  _ may _ or  _ may not _ have set me straight.”

Fenton hid his face in one hand and groaned. “Of course she did. And of course  _ this _ is what she decides to leave the house for.”

“This?” Gyro repeated wryly, squeezing Fenton’s hand. 

Fenton peered out tentatively from between his fingers. “You’re sure—?”

Gyro interrupted him, reaching forward to cup Fenton’s cheek with his free hand. “Fenton, I spent  _ three _ weeks trying to figure out how to ask you on a date and the best thing I could come up with was making metal flowers. I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Fenton replied, covering Gyro’s hand with his own. “Me too.”

They both began to lean forward, the stresses of the day calming as they were drawn together. Gyro ducked his head and Fenton tilted his head up to meet him, the rest of the world fading away. 

As a result, they were deaf to the rapid patter of feet as it steadily increased in volume just outside the door to the storage room. The door to which was thrown wide open with a Scottish-accented bellow of “ _ GYRO _ !”

Fenton yelped, leaping up in shock and banging his head on the underside of the worktable in his hurry to stand.Gyro had a slightly more graceful recovery, stumbling only briefly before standing at attention before their fuming, diminutive boss. 

“What can I do for you, Mr Mc—?”

“Do you  _ know _ how long I’ve been trying to contact you?” Scrooge demanded, his hands in fists on his waist. 

“Ah, um…”

“I only knew you two were down here because the security system registered you’d swiped in! I’m a very busy man, I don’t have  _ time _ to be constantly checking on my employees’ whereabouts!” 

“We’re so—”

“Never mind!” Scrooge interrupted with a terse sweep of his hand. “Gyro, do you have some sort of device to lure that giant squid in the harbor?”

Gyro thought for a moment. “I may still have that recording I made of their mating call—”

“Fine, fine! Send it to the lads,” Scrooge said. “We should be able to broadcast it from one of their phones.” He pointed fiercely at the two of them with his cane. “I’d better not have to go through this entire ordeal again!”

“Of course, Mr. McDuck!”

“Won’t happen again!”

“Good,” Scrooge said shortly, and made to leave. However, he paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh, and it’s about time, you two.”

He left the two scientists red in the face and sputtering with a self-satisfied smirk. 

**Author's Note:**

> FEED ME SEYMOUR! FEED ME COMMENTS!


End file.
